


Revised Schematics

by jer832



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, POV The Doctor (Doctor Who), Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5782546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jer832/pseuds/jer832
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows the definition of bliss with every millimetre of body and every spark of friction. Bliss is exultation, and exultation is moving inside Rose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revised Schematics

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote ["Confused Schematics"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5162138) for the bad_wolf_rising _Shag-or-Die_ ficathon on lj. When teawithlemon commented that she could tell immediately that she was in Nine's head, I wondered how different it would be inside Ten's head. Oh, it was muddled in there, the logic a mess to unknot. 
> 
> The Ten I chose to find had been Nine, of course, but he is not that soul any more. This 10th incarnation of the Doctor didn't die and begin in the Time War. The Doctor's finished beating himself up every second, and we can get him out of his hair shirt (mostly). After more than a year with Rose in the TARDIS, he can admit to himself, though still not to her, that she had had a profound effect on him almost from _Run_ , and when he regenerated he changed his physical features to please her. 
> 
> What if the Doctor remembers all that he and Bad Wolf shared in those last moments before Nine died? What if no possible time lines had been hidden from him; if he can stop prevaricating around all that is and ever could be, and the curse of Time Lords? Despite all he was and is and isn't anymore, and because of it, whether Ten is as thoroughly and hopelessly in love as Nine was or it flamed out with Nine, he is after all still a man.

 ~~~~~~~

 

  Revised Schematics

 

 

He gives the controls a couple more satisfied pats that turn into tender strokes once the TARDIS comes to rest in the vortex. With practiced indulgence his long fingers lovingly brush over the console's levers and buttons and those jury-rigged bits that have a purpose if not a name, and his time ship purrs. Rose has gone off to partake in a ritual she calls her _downtime chill_ , which involves a long shower, her pink terrycloth adult onesie, and an obscenely large hot fudge sundae. This would be a good opportunity, he decides, to take his own downtime chill. He shuts down all trains of thought that he's had running through his brain, letting his mind jump the tracks as it were and have a wander. He closes his eyes and blocks out control room distractions in favour of other, quite a bit more distracting distractions. His fingers ramble with doting tenderness over his console. His thoughts journey with rapt and lively fancy along the well-travelled path to his Rose.

 

_His_ Rose, oh yes. Because he is always one to dream big, and because he had found himself having quite paradoxically fallen in love, this singular path takes him to a Rose who is very very much his.

 

_His_.

 

Yes.

 

_And naked… oh yes. Before him on the console, blissfully spread beneath Time's cool green fires and his cunning fingers. Her skin like silk, an angel's skin_ —if angels did exist— _has gone goose-bumpy from his touch and she is trembling delightfully. He is quite proud of this effect he has on her, but it's nothing compared to the effect she has on him. Without even trying, Rose Tyler quite takes his breath away._

_Rose is radiant with the same unearthly cast as the control centre, which he takes as confirmation that she belongs to him quite the same as the TARDIS, and he feels a smug possessive joy. The schemata on the view screen give further testimony that she is his just as much as he is hers. Clear, precise, and unhurried, **t** he patterns that represent everything he needs to know about spatio-temporal reality are currently spelling out Rose's name and words that didn't even exist in the high Gallifreyan they've transformed.   Beloved. Adored. Desire. Hunger — _Oh yes, he thinks, so much hunger _— Always a part of me, no matter what, a part of me always very much yours._

_Time and space, well-behaved for once, have properly faded into background, the continuum is humming contentedly, and his Rose is quivering and sighing for him. "I love you"—these not so simple words are given and returned with no hesitation, affirming so much more than a congruity of schematics to the observable universe, so much more than mere empirical factuality. Yes, this is everything he needs to know about reality._

"I love you, Rose." (Barely whispered, even so he's more than relieved that she isn't there to not quite hear.)

_"Show me your moves," Rose's voice invites from somewhere low and warm and so humanly sultry; as always, it tantalizes him to do just that. His only reluctance involves the certain awkward inelegance that would come with using only his left hand to remove the many layers of clothing so that his right hand would not be deterred from its current, thoroughly joyful endeavours. But needs must. He escapes all his bloody sleeves directly he realizes it's the only way to deal with the conventions of three-dimensional space._

_A long, well-placed kiss lets him do the job with absolutely no regrets._

_Space and time hum in his ears. He recognizes the harmony yes he does, it's joy. Rose and he dance and it's wizard … brilliant … fantastic! Patterns skim and stroke and coax. Reality swells and writhes and slides in and fills up and grows and steadies. He knows the definition of bliss with every millimetre of body and every spark of friction. Bliss is exultation, and exultation is moving inside Rose. He moves vigorously and the spatio-temporal continuum sings. (An implacable cosmos wobbles; a lifetime late, it should still be better than never but he won't desecrate even one moment with her to care) Reality is spicy and sharp, it's honeyed and tangy and robust. Reality is carnal and divine and unashamedly lusty. Realty is body against body. Reality, as those Americans say, is hot and hard, it's down and dirty._

(In his fantasies reality is usually also sweaty and slick and not half noisy. Sometimes as he watches Rose go about the normal little things she does on the ship he'll wonder if she is the noisy sort. He'll wonder just how noisy he could bring her to be and construct imaginative plots to find out. Sometimes … yes well, very often he wonders if her mouth could drive him incoherent with sensation. Apparently reality is at its very best when it's rather inebriated and gone quite daft on tales of frogs aching to be kissed by plump-lipped damsels, and forests of bramble to part; on unicorns and pixie dust and a handful of magic beans.)

 

(He wonders about many other things. The wolf burned with two fires when he kissed her. Her flame linked with his, they fuelled and fed on each other. Not the Dalek fleet or feeling herself dying smothered her passion. Death did nothing to extinguish his desire. More than once since then, Rose has caught him staring at her and suggested chips; he dares not imagine the hungry look he must wear at those times. Obviously she doesn’t remember anything, or she may not love him the same. Otherwise chips wouldn't be first thing on her menu.)

_Her body is slick with an indescribable nectar that he should never get enough of. He has one final taste to feed his addiction and make Rose squeal. Her golden eyes flash with lusty fire as she grabs his ears and pulls him up to her lips, fair game for a kiss that like their first starts off tender and quickly grows fangs. His Rose is as hungry for him as ever, as hungry as he'd ever been for her. Loving soulful words full of declarations and vows could come later_ _~~.~~ _ _Right now his Rose is wholly into teeth and tongue and loud enthusiastic vocalizing. He wholeheartedly approves, especially when she palms him then drags a tight little fist up and down his member._

_This next round of shagging is fast and noisy and dirty and immensely satisfying. As she catches her breath he plants a tender kiss on the tip of her nose, but he's already assessing where next to have her. Against a coral? On and over and across the bench? Her legs around his shoulders and her arse pressed into one very lucky hexagon as he eats his fill then shags her into the wall of the control room?_

_Control room,_ he thinks, is such a picturesque choice of name.

 

She's gorgeous, yes of course—her smile, her eyes, that tongue. Her form is a vision now that she's abandoned baggy denims and hoodies. But Rose is gorgeous in so many more ways. Her essence is pure loving, caring compassion. She found a broken soldier with neither future nor hope, brought the brute of his self-loathing to its knees, and enticed life back out of soul-rending despair. Rose Tyler burned brighter than a billion stars, she burned with possibilities and with second chances. She burns and dazzles him still, he who knows the exquisite grandeur and intimacies of the universe! Rose is what separates light from unending darkness. She is the song of the universe and the metre of time. Rose Tyler makes him want to recite poetry— No, by Rassilon, Rose Tyler makes him want to write poetry! …

 

… which, thinking back on it, apparently he just did. He can't help but laugh out loud. No doubt the Brigadier would look askance at him and say with perhaps a bit too much cheek, Doctor are you quite sure it's the young woman's essence that you are most dazzled by? My dear Lethbridge-Stewart, he would respond, Time knows that a universe lies within Rose Tyler's single mortal heart. Anything else is no one's concern save mine.

 

He wants Rose Tyler. He is a man and she's a conflagration inside him that he won't put out… would never put out, not even if he could.

 

He's never been keen on the Tarot and he'll give the big bad wolf no quarter. He knows exactly who he is, yes, and the rest of it… that's all sleight of hand. He's an enigma and an expert obfuscator, an upstart and more than a bit of a perverse sod. He's honourably and regrettably powerful, he's been compelled to remorseless extreme and suffered inconsolable failure, and sometimes he just has to throw a bloody great old tantrum. He's reckless and foolish and wise beyond everyone's understanding. He might well get himself killed again and he still can't quite bring himself to give a fig. He knows _exactly_ who he is, yes, and the rest of it.

 

He loves her and there's no reason to tell her. She loves him and she doesn't remember. She won't stay with him. He won't let her go yet, and perverse sod that he is maybe one day soon he'll do more than wonder! Yes, well... He eyes a coral speculatively and feels himself stir. He wants her. He smirks. Even a Time Lord can see that the height is perfect.

 

The TARDIS is happily cradled in a peaceful vortex. On the view screen mathematical representations quiver and revolve and flow, form patterns that merge and separate, recombine and writhe together with an organic rhythm. Reality moves lustily, not merely in his fantasies. His thoughts journey as always along the impracticable, illicit path that is Rose

 

 

 


End file.
